✦•┈๑⋅⋯ maellia ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Recom Miles Quaritch x Female neurodivergent! reader

Summary:

You push your food around on the little plastic tray. “I don’t even know what I want. I mean,” your voice drops to a whisper, “I can’t date him, can I? Maybe he just wants a sexual relationship.”

She says your name, affectionately exasperated, “A man does not buy you coffee every single day because he wants to get in your pants.”

Or

A story about a quirky little geoscientist and a cuthroat military colonel.

Word count: 8.1 k

Content warnings: ableism, 18+ content

AO3 link (apologies for those who followed me from there): https://archiveofourown.org/works/84300126/chapters/222334986

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

You relied on routine to stay sane. Every day is the same, and the same is good. Same desk. Same people. Same coffee. Colonel Miles Quaritch was also part of that same. Not a big part, no, but he stands out amongst the rest. Like right now, standing in front of you, stabbing the buttons on the coffee machine.

You tap your card, but it lets out a little beep. Your stomach drops, and you tap it again. Another beep. Anxiety is clawing up your throat when you tap it a third time, and people behind you start grumbling. Your face gets hot, and you squeeze the hand that’s hanging down at your side. You go to tap it a fourth time, but a big blue hand swoops in and taps its card before you can. You don’t need to look up; you know who it belongs to. But you do, anyway. Everyone behind you has quieted, his imposing presence a crowd suppressant.

“Thank you.” You say, voice a little unsteady.

“It’s nothin’, kid.”

Really, it’s everything. He saved your entire day. You get your coffee and resume your route to work. You glance at your watch. You’re running behind, but it’s not the end of the world. Your lunch will end a little early, that’s all.

Your coworkers have enough tact not to mention your slight tardiness. Except for Alan. Alan sucks.

He slides close, too close. He breathes too loudly and wears so much cologne. It makes your eyes water.

“Rough night?”

“My card wasn’t working.” You explain, even though you shouldn’t have to.

“I’ll treat you tomorrow,” he pauses, “maybe we could do breakfast?”

“It was just a weird glitch.” You excuse, “I have to catch up, now.”

And you do. You’ve analyzed and sorted all of the most recent samples, and now it’s time for data entry, which an assistant should be doing. But you don’t have one, which is fine; you’d rather not worry about someone else’s mistakes.

Aimless chatter fills the air as you type. Michelle had a date with Craig from IT. Alan pays for your lunch, and the rest of your team fills a table.

“So, who paid for your coffee, then?” Ella, an assistant, asks while stirring her tea. She has a sly little smile on her face.

“Colonel Quaritch.”

The statement of his name sucks the air out of the room. They look at you, slack-jawed and shocked at the revelation.

“Come on, guys,” Alan says, “she’s joking, right?” He looks at you, “right?”

“My card wasn’t working, so he tapped his. It’s not a big deal.”

“Maybe he likes you,” Ella suggests.

“I was holding up the line. It’s not like that.” You explain.

“If you say so.” She says, in a singsong voice.

Alan changes the subject, not keen on talking about the man.

Alan agrees to meet you in the cafeteria at 0730. Not for breakfast. Just coffee. It’s not ideal, no, but it’s better than the alternative.

But now you’re standing in the line, alone, with no Alan. You call him, a little agitated and a lot anxious.

“You said you’d be here.” You say.

“Shit, I'm on my way. Just let someone go ahead of you.”

No. “I can’t.”

“Just hold on. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

You end the call a little more aggressively than intended. You pocket your phone and peek past the giant man in front of you. There’s only one person ahead of him. You glance behind you at the growing line, then the exit. You swivel on your feet and escape the stuffy cafeteria. You know it shouldn’t be a big deal, but it is. If things don’t go according to plan, the day is ruined. Like a domino effect, you can’t stop it. You step left into a maintenance hallway and try to breathe as the mandatory therapy videos told you to. In and out. You contemplate calling in sick and spending the day in your room. Then you won’t have a terribly ruined day. Your phone vibrates. Alan is calling. You decline it and swipe to the leave request page. You scroll down to the sick button and start filling out the form.

You nearly jump when a voice says, “Ah— there you are.”

You look up, up, up, because he’s just that tall. “Oh,” you say, “can I help you, sir?”

He holds out a coffee, and you blink, wondering if this is all a mirage. You’re embarrassed to find out it isn’t, and you take the coffee from his hands, but, confused, ask, “Why?”

“That limp dicked lab coat offered you a coffee, didn’t he?”

(A/N cr to limp dicked to makoodles)

“Limp dicked lab coat.” You repeat.

“See ya round, kid.”

He leaves. He leaves you standing alone in the maintenance hallway, wondering what the hell happened.

You’re late by a few minutes. Alan is all sheepish and apologetic, but eyes the coffee in your hand and his attitude shifts.

Your day doesn’t totally combust, which is rather shocking, honestly. You get your new card later that day, and buy Alam lunch for the one he bought you.

In the afternoon, Ella lingers by your work table. “So,” she begs, “the scariest man on the planet bought you a coffee again?”

“He’s not scary.” You reply.

Ella goes on for so long that you end up tuning her out. But she’s not done, no. She walks with you to the cafeteria. “I heard they’re massive down there.”

“They’re nearly 10 feet tall, Ella. Of course they’ll be big.”

“I dunno if I could do the whole blue skin thing, though.” She says, pondering.

“Well, it’s a good thing that none of them are interested in you.”

She pretends to shiver, “You’re cold.”

“What? You’re into biologists anyway, right?”

Her face lights up, “Yes, ooh— we’re going to the bar.”

Sometimes you wonder if Ella sees you as a little doll she plays dress up with. You sure feel like one as she picks out your outfit and dabs some makeup on your face. Whatever is what you think. You’ll have some alcohol so you can feel normal, and maybe meet someone who isn’t gross? A girl can dream, right?

Ella has her pick of the crop, with her bubbly laugh and sweet smile. You make a game of counting how many guys she dances with, and then bet on who she’ll bring home. As she’s dragged out of the bar, she asks if you’re good. Which you are, so you nod. It feels lonely when you walk back home. Usually, you don’t mind being lonely. It means you don’t have to deal with someone else’s bullshit, and they don’t interrupt your routine. But you do feel a little envy with how easily it all comes to her. You sway a little as you walk, lost in your thoughts. You pause and lean against the wall, pulling out your phone. You don’t want to be alone right now. You let out a breath. You’ll go home, wash up, and if you still feel lonely, you’ll call someone. The elevator is up ahead; you aren’t too far now.

You sway your way there and push your floor number with shaky fingers. Man, you need some water. Before the doors close, someone steps in. They say your name, and you squint. They’re vaguely familiar to you, but you don’t recall their name. Still, you’ll be friendly.

“Oh, hey.”

They cock their head, confused. “Cmon, you don’t remember?”

“Sorry,” you say as the elevator doors open, “I’m a little drunk.”

“I can walk you home,” they offer.

“I’m good,” you say, “thanks, though.”

As you walk back, alone, you wonder what would have happened if you said yes. You probably would have regretted it in the morning, but you wouldn’t feel so woefully alone right now.

“Fuck me.” You mutter, rubbing your face.

Then, you hear someone else say your name and look up. This one, you know. Alan. He must just be coming home, too. He’s your neighbour, two doors down.

“Oh, hey.” You say, for a second time that night.

“Wanna come have a beer?” He asks, holding up a bag. You look up at him. You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t. He was late to get you coffee, but then again, you're so stiff you don’t bend, not til you’ve loosened up with a drink. That’s probably why your father was an alcoholic. Sure, he wears too much cologne and is a bit of an idiot, but he’s not a terrible guy; you could be spending time with worse people, so you nod.

You’re halfway through your beer, sitting on Alan’s bed, watching a movie on the tiny screen that is implanted on the wall. He asks what he's been wondering all this time.

“Why are you so,” he searches for the right word, “rigid?”

“Why is water wet? It’s just how it is, Alan.”

“Doesn’t it get lonely?” He asks.

“Yeah.” You answer genuinely.

“Maybe you don’t have to be so lonely?” He tentatively suggests.

You breathe in, and it hits you. “Too messy,” you say, “Ella would love it, though.”

That night was a sobering, shared memory. When you wake up in your own bed, you can’t believe how close you got. Crazy, absolutely insane. It’s your weekend, so you work out, shower, then splurge on a better lunch than usual. Most of your paycheck is going back home; there’s not much to spend on here. As you’re walking down the hallway, you hear some voices shouting. You go on your tiptoes and look through the window in that direction. It’s the recoms, a few are playing something that vaguely resembles soccer, and a few are lifting weights. Quaritch is too, and your mouth goes dry. Na’vi are lean, but he’s built. He’s shirtless, and His skin shines with a faint sheen of sweat, and you watch how his muscles ripple as he completes bench presses. You stare, stare through the entire set, stare until someone bursts through the door nearby. You slowly look over, like a kid caught with their hand in a cookie jar. They don’t say anything; they don’t have time to. You beeline it out of there, and check your watch.

Your gaze lingers on his broad back, now. Now that you’ve seen what’s under his shirt, you can’t stop thinking about it. None of the guys at your gym looked like that, nor anywhere close to it. Before long, you’re crushing. Replaying the times he bought you coffee, watching him on the weekend, ugh, you feel creepy, but you can’t stop. You can’t confide in Ella, not unless you want the whole base knowing. Michelle asks what's wrong after you make a careless mistake. You’re vague, just that you’re thinking about someone who’s way out of your league. Her face furrows in concern, “Why would they be out of your league?”

It feels like your mouth is full of cotton, “'Cause I’m me, and they’re—“

“Normal? Oh, hon, no. Don’t be thinking that way.”

Well, not normal, exactly. But way, way out of your league.

“It’s bad, Michelle. I,” your voice drops to a whisper, “watched him work out.”

She laughs, laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard in the century.

“Look,” she says, “keep staying in his orbit, and maybe you’ll collide.”

He’s been in your orbit for weeks. But you’re not like him; you don’t stand out. A human in the sea of many. You see his broad shoulders and tapered waist every day. But behind him, you’re just a tiny, insignificant speck.

“Sorry, folks,” a voice says, “the machine is down.”

Ins return, there’s some moans and grumbles from the caffeine addicted. You take a few deep breaths. You know it’s not the end of the world, but it feels like it is. You go to the washroom and look at yourself in the mirror. You wash your hands for no particular reason. It’s just a coffee. You know you’re late. You should be halfway to the lab right now. You slip out of the washroom and head to work. Without a coffee.

Just as you step into the hallway, you see him. You look down and turn to walk away. You don't want him to see you like this. All torn up over a damn coffee. But he blocks your path, so you have to look up at him.

“You need this more than me.” He grabs your hand and places the drink in it. It’s warm, but not too hot.

You remember what Michelle said. About orbits. Colliding.

“Oh, um, I—“

He takes a knee so you’re face-to-face. Almost.

“Look, kid. You’re gonna sit down in the caf at 0730 and get yourself something to eat. I’ll bring you a coffee. No more of this BS, alright?”

“Is this an order?”

“Should it be?” He asks, a little intrigued.

“I understand.” Is all you manage, feeling beyond flustered at his tone and how he’s looking at you.

“Good girl. Off you go.”

You’re a few things. Scared shirtless, and beyond giddy. Ella prods, but you don’t fold. When you and Michelle are alone in the lab, it spills out like vomit.

“He told me he was gonna bring me a coffee every day.” She elbows you.

“See!”

“It’s complicated, though.”

“How so?”

“He calls me ‘kid’”

Her brows furrow, “Well, is he old?”

“It’s complicated.” You say, and it gives it away. A fifty-something trapped in a 20-year-old body.

She says your name, and you bury your face in your hands. “I’m crazy, aren’t I?

“You are not,” she tuts, “but you need to update me.”

You’re so not shitting your pants the next morning staring at your croissant like it’s going to bite you. He told you to eat, so you do. With each swallow, you wonder why. Why is he doing this? You’re not given much more time to wonder as he places a cup of coffee in front of you. He doesn’t linger, just a quick: “enjoy.” And he’s off. And you’re off.

And much to your delight, your day doesn’t go to shit. But, after a few days, you go to Michelle. “He doesn’t stay,” you say, “he just drops it off and leaves.”

“Look, hun. He’s bringing you a coffee every day. He probably doesn’t have time to sit around, but he’s making time to bring you a cup.”

The corners of your lips tug down into a frown. “Look, run into him on the weekend— you know when he works out, right? Aim for right after.”

“Why right after?”

“You’ll see.”

On Saturday, you wonder if Michelle said purely to punish you. It feels like punishment. His body is all shiny with sweat, the veins in his arms more prominent from the pump of his workout.

You look up at him with wide eyes, not knowing what to say.

“What are you doin’ round here, kid?”

You look down at your runners-clad feet. They’re basic, black with white trim. Adequate ankle support, not super cushy. “Walking.” You say bluntly.

He makes a stifled sound, and when you look up at his eyes, you think he is laughing.

“You’re one odd duck.”

Your cheeks burn, and something ugly twists inside you.

“Goodbye.” You say, without looking at his eyes. Your voice is all strangled and pathetic, and you kind of want to crawl into a hole.

You know you’re weird, but when the guy you have a weird, obsessive crush on says it, it stings. It’s a reminder you aren’t that kind of girl. You’re not like Ella. It reminds you of your lonely days in school, kids laughing under their breath. You excelled in school, but that’s it. That’s all you got out of it. Now you’re in this place where you have friends, and no one makes fun of you because they’re adults. They don’t laugh. They like the same things you do. And maybe some of them (Ella) see you as a project, but at least they aren’t laughing at you. And now you realize, all you are to him is a project. Kid. He sees you as a kid, someone who needs a daddy to hold their hand and tell them what to do. Buy them coffee because their lives depend on routine.

You go into your room and cry a little. Then you lie on your bed, in only an oversized RDA t-shirt that fits you like a dress. You pull on a pair of shorts and eat dinner on your floor's lounge, a pathetic microwave meal. Michelle sits across from you, on the little metal table and chair that squeaks on the floor. You gather what you think is supposed to be spaghetti on your fork and take a bite. It has a weird metallic aftertaste.

“Hon, what happened?” You’re pretty sure this is how a mother would speak to you. It’s comforting, in a weird way.

“I ran into him. He asked me what I was doing there, and I said I was walking,” you pause for a sip of water, “and I said I was walking—because I was walking! He thought it was funny and called me an odd duck.”

“Sweetheart, he was trying to flirt.” Her voice is all sympathetic, and you’re not sure if you like it.

“How do I flirt, Michelle. How do I know someone is flirting?”

Michelle gives you a crash course on social cues when it comes to flirting. The videos your teacher made you watch before you graduated taught you how to function in a professional environment, what to ask, and how to respond. When is it right to do what? But it didn’t tell you how to act when you like someone. When you’re already all flustered and reset to factory settings.

“Just be yourself.” She says, “and assume he’s flirting. He sure doesn’t want to be your friend.”

“Myself? Nobody would want to be with me. Not when they can be with someone who can flirt back. Be normal.”

She reaches out to touch your hand. You don’t flinch away. “The person who is worth your time will like you for who you are.”

You push your food around on the little plastic tray. “I don’t even know what I want. I mean,” your voice drops to a whisper, “I can’t date him, can I? Maybe he just wants a sexual relationship.”

Michelle says your name, affectionately exasperated, “A man does not buy you coffee every single day because he wants to get in your pants.”

“Maybe he just sees me as someone who’s like a pathetic child who needs someone to buy them coffee every day!”

“Or maybe he knows what it’s like to be the person who people look at weird.”

“He’s a fucking colonel! The most valuable person in the whole RDA.”

“And you’re not,” she says bluntly, it’s something you would say, “but you are valuable. You’re a very smart girl and good at your job. And maybe he sees that. And maybe, just maybe, he thinks you deserve more than what you get.”

“Thanks, Michelle.” You feel all warm inside.

“So keep getting coffee from your man, okay?”

“Is he gonna mention it?”

“He’s no bleeding heart, but hey, maybe he’ll bring you a treat.”

She sees you grimace a little, “And this is probably the only time I'm gonna tell you to fake it, but if you don’t like it, eat it and thank him.”

He does bring you a treat, some sort of custardy thing, tiny, two bites. With a little piece of fruit you’re not sure is real on top with a pie-like crust.

“Oh, thank you,” you say, “that’s very sweet…” you pause, trying to remember what you heard Michelle say when her husband brought her something similar, “of, of you!”

“Go on, before someone steals it.”

A look of horror crosses your face, and you whisper: “Has that happened to you?”

He grins, and you look at his sharp canines. They make you feel excited for reasons you don’t know. “No, sweetheart. It’s a joke—,” he sees you grimace, “but a bad one. Mine are a little out of date.”

“If you’re biologically twenty but mentally fifty, does that make you seventy?” Then you pause, thinking, “wow. You’d be more like my grandfather, not father.” Then, you whisper to yourself, “Grandpa, grandpa.”

He chuckles, deep and low, “ I’d rather be neither.”

Your eyes widen, and your cheeks burn. If he’s not your father, grandfather, or friend, there’s really only one other thing he could be. Well, two, he could be your enemy, but based on his behaviour, that’s highly unlikely. “I would like that too, um, you being neither.” Then you eat, before you say anything else embarrassing.

Quaritch grins and watches you eat. You grimace, and chew as it pains you, and wash it down with coffee. Your eyes light up, this time. It’s a fucking latte. Hazelnut melts on your tongue, and you’re afraid you’re never gonna be able to go back to black coffee.

He pulls the plate over, with the other half of your treat. “Don’t pretend, kid. I wanna know what you like.”

You lift the coffee,” this, and um, you.”

He plops the rest of it in his mouth, and you watch how his jaw works when he chews, you follow it down his throat, then look down again.

“I like how honest you are.” He replies.

“Really? Most people find it off-putting.” You aren’t sure why you’re being so open, and not clamming up. God, did Michele hypnotize you with your little heart-to-heart?

“Most people are living to please other people. You ain’t, darlin’.”

“I suck at making friends and get upset over things that seem like no big deal.”

“No one’s perfect.” He answers, matter-of-factly.

“Guess so.”

You have a little pep in your step, and you replay the way he looked at you and rehash the feelings you had this morning. Amazing, on cloud nine.

“Better?” Michelle asks over lunch.

“I don’t know if you’re a hypnotist or psychic, Michelle. Maybe both.”

She pries the details out of you over a drink on Friday. She’s so engaged and interested, it feels like you’re talking to Ella, except more rational and trustworthy. And like she really cares, not just because it’s exciting.

You’re nursing your second drink of the night when you start wishing he were with you. Michelle walks back with you, you hum and sigh all the way back home, “Michelle, you’re really lovely and amazing and my best friend, but I kind of wish you were Quaritch right now.”

“That so?” An all too familiar voice says behind you.

You cover your mouth with your hand, horrified, yet you turn around. He's casually leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and he looks oh so sexy in his slim sleeveless undershirt, stretched over his pecs deliciously. His dog tags hang on his neck, and his tail swishes behind him. You kind of want to grab it.

“Shoot,” Michelle says, “I forgot my ID.”

“Let’s get you home then, little lady.” He lifts himself off the side of the wall and starts to walk. You do too. He slows his pace so you can keep up, with your much smaller legs.

You don’t really talk, but the silence isn’t too awkward. You’re too buzzed to worry about what you said. And you’re just buzzed enough to invite him in.

He looks around your tidy room. At the different rocks that line your windowsill. That’s all there is for decor, really. Just a plain issued twin bed and a closet built into the wall. You slip off your shoes and put them on the plastic mat by the door. He follows suit, and a little excitement stirs in your stomach.

“Sorry, I um, don’t have any chairs. You can sit on the bed if you like.”

“Alright.” He says with a nod.

You rock on your feet, having not really experienced this before, but swallow your fear and sit on the bed cross cross applesauce. He brings up one knee so he can face you. He looks a little funny, like a giant on your bed. It creaks under his weight, but doesn’t break. He glances at your rock collection.

“That’s, um, my rock collection.” You explain.

“Go on,” he says with a nod.

His words push you to go into great detail, spewing facts and explaining each rock. What it’s made of, where it’s from, and the relevance it holds. Why it is special to you.  You’re breathless by the time you finish the last one.

“You’re one smart cookie.” He praises, and your cheeks get hot.

“But, am I a science puke?“

“‘Course not.” He answers.

“But, what makes someone a science puke?”

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t invite me in to ask that.” Is his answer.

You gnaw on your lower lip, and his gaze falls to it. Then his hand is on the side of your face, fingers tangling in your hair. His thumb rubs on your cheekbone, and your heart rate picks up. You really want to kiss him right now. He does the honours, pressing his lips against yours. You tense up for a moment, then relax as his other hand finds your waist. You lean into him and put your arms around his neck, fingers holding onto the little hair there. He groans and ducks your lower lip into his mouth. His canines graze the tender flesh, and you whimper. This only spurs him on, and you end up on his lap. His giant body engulfs you, mouth so hot and perfect slotted against yours. His hand in your hair, the grazing down your spine. You arch into him, and your body, moving on its own accord, rolls your hips when his tongue starts exploring your mouth. You’ve met a whole new world of pleasure, how his length rubs perfectly on him as he devours you. His lips are on your neck, hands on your hips as he guides you to grind on him. Moans fall freely now, like music to his ears. He reads you like a book now that he can hear you. Before the chafing begins to hurt, he tears your panties in two and situates you on his thigh, where he’s pulled up his shorts. His bare skin is hot against you, your wetness coating it.

“You’re leaking like a faucet.” He murmurs into your ear as he guides you to rub his smooth thigh. When his mouth finds your nipple, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth, you start humpinf him with reckless abandon.

You moan his name, his last name, but he corrects you, “Miles. Say my name.”

You do, you say it like a lustful chant, and his lips slot against yours again. As much as he likes hearing your pretty little voice, he is craving to explore your mouth again. He feels your pace quicker, grows more erratic.

He nips at your ear, “gonna cum for me, hm?”

Your breath hitches in your throat, “uh huh,” you say, fillowed my some incoherent words and moans.

He kisses you again and grabs your hips, guiding you again. You like how it feels, him in control.

White-hot heat floods your body, starting at the bottom of your spine, then flowing through your whole body until you’re a trembling, twitching mess. You fall into him, pressing your face into his chest. His arms wrap around you and squeeze. You let out a little sigh. You fall asleep like that, cradled in his lap while he rubs a soothing hand down your back.

You wake up the next day with a pounding headache, then the memories of last night come rushing back. You look down at yourself. You’re just wearing an oversized RDA shirt. You clench the worn fabric in your hands. He changed you and tucked you into bed. Then you remember rutting against his thigh like an animal, and your cheeks burn.

Your cheeks burn when he brings you your latte in the morning, and he sits across from you.

“Sleep okay?” He asks as you sip.

“Uh-huh,” you nod, and try to think of a conversation to make. He’s not a scientist; he’s not making discoveries. He’s a soldier, a very, very expensive one. “What are you doing today?”

“Nothing special.” He says.

“The RDA must be getting a bad return on their investment.”

He nearly chokes on his coffee, and only when you hear the ragged noise do you realize that maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say.

“Sorry.” You mumble, a little embarrassed.

“You sure keep me on my toes,” he says, “don’t work too hard.” He ruffles your hair as he says the last bit, and you push his hand away. He just grins down at you, and you can’t help but smile too.

When you step into the lab, you can tell something is off. You don't need to ask. Ella is slumped over her desk, “I’m never going to get my samples, ever!” She’s working on her dissertation in order to get her phD.

You have the funding for four excursions a year.

“Was the funding cut?” You ask.

“No,” she pouts, “lack of staff.”

You bristle at that. You know what the RDA is doing is terrible, but that’s what you’re here for. To mitigate the damage that could be done. A fool's errand, but you’ve got to try, right?

You look at your calendar to see that your scheduled outing, a survey you’ve been preparing for months, is cancelled. You shake out your hands, trying to keep your breathing steady. Anxiety claws up into your throat. All these hours worked meant nothing.

Michelle says your name three times before you finally look up at her, “I’m appealing the decision. It’s just gonna be delayed.”

“Who signed off on it?” You ask, “The decision?”

“ A dumbass named Slade, head of transportation.”

“Apparently, paving some new roads is more important.” Ella pipes up.

You straighten up your back, and Michelle says your name, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go.”

“I’m just going to have a conversation.” You say, “I can handle it.”

You whisper what you plan to say as you walk to the security sector.

“Excuse me,” you say, “I’d like to speak with Slade.”

“He’s busy.” She replies lamely.

You peer into his office, and he’s sitting there, doing nothing.

“He doesn’t look busy. I’m not leaving until I can speak to him.”

She sighs and presses her earpiece, “Sir, I’ve got someone from the lab here.”

She looks up at you, “he’s reviewing the appeal.”

You decide to let yourself into the office. There’s no rule saying you can’t.

He eyes you up as you walk in, gaze travelling from your neat black shoes, fitted slacks, and your shirt buttoned up, save for the collar. Your name is on your lab coat, and you’re fiddling with your hands.

“We just don’t have the manpower.” He explains.

“You’re wrong.” You blurt out.

“The hell are you on? I have these numbers right here.”

“No, your priorities are wrong, sir.”

He watches how you avoid his eyes. Oh. You’re one of them.

“I know it might be hard for you to fathom, but there’s more to do than just research. We’ve got quotas to meet.”

“Proceeding before surveying the area is dangerous, sir.”

“It’s a fucking road.”

“You’ve endangered the operation, as well as the native and indigenous life here. You’ve made a very poor decision, sir.”

The world starts to blur when he calls you a word you haven’t heard for a long time. It’s been so long, it strikes you hard. To him, you’re not a person, you’re not a scientist. That is what you are, that terrible word is all he sees you as. And you know, you know, there’s no arguing with people like this. You can’t change the way he sees you. But you’re off kilter as you walk back, world thrown askew by a single word. This is what Michelle was talking about. She didn’t think you couldn’t handle a conversation, no, she knew what he was like. Your phone buzzes, and you see a message from her.

Michelle Work

13:59:Everything ok?

14:00:Yes, thank you.

And you’re fine, you will be fine. You just need a little reset, step out of that space and into a better one.

You hear a familiar voice, and pause. You look out the window and see the recoms outside. They’re working out, and Quaritch is there too, naturally. And hey, if seeing his body slick with sweat, veins bulging, gets you out of your funk, it works, right? No harm done. You watch on, part of you amazed at how strong he really is. The physical feat is near unbelievable. No man could even think about lifting that much weight, and there he is, lifting it like it weighs nothing.

Then his gaze turns to you, and you get down off your tiptoes and turn away. You do know that staring at someone for long periods of time is considered weird. The doors open with a hush as he steps through them. “Fancy seeing you here.” He says with a grin.

“I was just walking back,” you say, “your muscles distracted me.”

“Is that all I am? A piece of meat, huh?”

Your cheeks burn, “No!”

“Where were you coming from? This is out of the way.”

Your face falls, and he notes it immediately. He takes a knee so he’s level with you, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, “just stupid.”

“Ain’t stupid,” he says, “tell me.”

“They cancelled our survey, so I went to go speak to Slade, head of transportation.” You explain.

“Go on.”

“I told him he was making bad decisions, and he, um, he called me—I don’t want to say it.” You let out a breath, “It’s bad.”

“I’ll deal with it.” Is all Quaritch says before patting you on the head and slipping past you. You leave before any of the other recoms see you.

When you return to the lab, Ella and Michelle are waiting nervously. You know you shouldn’t be happy— and you aren’t. But Quaritch, well, Miles is dealing with it? You can only imagine how he’ll rip that security officer a new one.

“It’s being dealt with.” You say.

“By who— oh!” Michelle says.

“Oh?” Ella says, “Who’s oh?”

It takes a few moments for the wheels to turn in her head, “Oh, you did not!”

“I didn’t!”

She grins like a Cheshire Cat, “Really? I might have been wasted, but it’s a little hard to miss a giant blue man walking with you the other night.”

“He was just being a good friend.” You lie, it’s an awful one.

“I mean, if Colonel Quaritch is your BOYFRIEND— holy fuck!” Ella squeals as the man himself appears in the doorway.

You’d like to melt into a puddle. “This is why I don’t tell you anything.” You mutter, leaving the room.

He seems amused, “I just told her that it was being dealt with. She made assumptions.”

“Don’t sweat it, kid.” He says with a shrug.

Oh, you’re sweating. All this kerfuffle has you constantly flushed. You wonder why a hardened soldier like himself would make such a fuss over a slur. You’re pretty sure the military type makes use of every one. May as well have them in a dictionary. That’s not something you’ll wank about. You just typically don’t engage with the type of people who would act in such a way. Until him, of course.

“You have a place we can chat?” He asks.

You lead him to the break room, avoiding everyone else’s stares.

“What would you like to talk about?”

“Tell me why you marched your pretty little ass over there and told him off?”

You explain the survey and its reasoning. “And if you start construction on an area that has not yet been surveyed, it can pose a threat to everyone. I don’t want any na’vi, animals, or people to be hurt due to negligence.”

“Lemme guess, the only time you can get your samples too?”

You nod.

“If anyone else gives ya’ trouble, you tell me.”

Ella nearly squeals when you return. “I can’t believe you’re dating him!”

“I’m not dating him.” You reply.

“What are you, then?”

You shrug, “I dunno. He brings me a latte—“

“Latte!” Ella gasps, “Those are expensive!”

You clear your throat, “every day. Then, as everyone seems to know, he walked me home.”

“And you invited him inside,” Alan adds on.

Ella grabs your arm and yanks on it, “You have got to tell me everything!”

“You’re gonna need to buy me a few drinks for that.” You reply with an eye roll.

And she does. It only takes two to loosen up your lips. You’re in her room because this is not a conversation for a bar. “Then I invited him inside.”

“Then what?” She asks, literally on the edge of her seat, well, bed.

“Everything you usually do with a man.” You reply.

Her jaw drops, “Was it big?”

“We didn’t go that far.” You reply, taking another swig.

“Cmon, I need the sordid details!”

You pause for a moment. It’s kinda nice, you have to admit. Female friendship, another girl your age actually wanting to converse with you.

“He just grabbed my hips and rubbed me on his thigh.” Your cheeks burn as you say it.

“Oh my gosh,” she says, “I’m so jealous!”

“If you say anything, I’m never telling you anything again.”

“My lips are sealed!” She says with a nod.

You lie back on her bed and sigh. Ella looks down at you and grins, “You’re in love.”

You sit up and straighten up, “I’m not. I just miss him.”

“Go find him then.” She replies.

“What? No, I mean, I don’t even know where his quarters are.”

“Just go to the recom sector.”

“It’s a weeknight, Ella.”

The rest of the week is normal, and when Friday rolls around, you ask him if he’s doing anything tonight.

“Not yet.”

“Oh, um, would you like to hang out?”

“How about you come over?”

And so, after showing the day away, you’re standing outside his door. You knock, and when he opens it up, you could melt. He looks downright sinful in that get-up, a sleeveless undershirt that stretches over his large pecs, tapering down to his slim waist. Then a pair of grey sweatpants hung low on his hips. And there’s a bulge, there’s an outline of his dick.

There’s no denying how bad you want him now.

So, you stand up on your tiptoes and yank him down. He grins into the kiss and scoops you up. Now your arms are around his neck, he holds you up with one hand while the other runs through your hair. He yanks it, and you let out a moan. He chuckles, “You like that, hm?”

“Yeah.” You say, voice a little breathless.

He starts kissing down your neck, while his hand kneads the plump flesh of your ass, “yer’ gonna be the death of me.” He says into your skin as he lays you down on the bed.

He kneels on the bed and strips off his shirt. He dives down to kiss you again, but you place a hand on his chest, “Wait, you lie down.”

“Bossy.” He says, amused.

But, he does listen. You move to situate yourself between his parted legs. You glance up at him. He’s all relaxed, head propped up with his hands like he’s lazing at a beach. You pull down his sweatpants, and gasp when you see the size. It’s a whole lot bigger than a human one, shit, it must be the length of a ruler. You can’t pussy out now, though. You wrap one hand around his length and drag the other down to cup his balls. You get yourself in a good position to go down on him, first putting the head in your mouth.

“Never done this before, have ya?” He says, and it’s not really a question. You shake your head, feeling embarrassed.

“Go on, get it wet.” He says, and you’re confused, you don’t have any water, “spit on it.” He clarifies.

You do as you’re told, and your saliva drips down his shaft. “Squeeze—not too tight,” he says, “move yer’ hands up n down.”

You listen, and he lets out a low groan. A spike of fire stirs in your core. “Suck on it again, use your tongue.”

You take him as deep as you can, til he hits the back of your throat. You gag around him, but don’t stop.

“There you go, baby. Good girl.” He says, and you moan around his cock. He groans in return, and you swirl your tongue around him, and he bucks up into your mouth. He pulls you off when your jaw is begging to ache.

“Your turn.” He says.

“What?”

“Ride my face, baby.”

“I—okay.” You shimmy off your pants and underwear. You sit there nervously, not sure what to do.

“Don’t be shy when you just had those pretty lips wrapped around my cock.”

Your cheeks burn, “c’mon, knees by my head.”

You let out a little huff, but you do straddle his head. You hover above, “lemme taste you.” He says with a grin.

You tentatively drop down, if only to shut him up. You’ve never felt so embarrassed. You can’t hold back your moan when his hot tongue licks from your hole to clit.

“Holy shit.” You breathe out.

He lifts you, just to speak, “Remember what you did to my thigh? Do it again, honey.”

You place your hands on the headboard to steady yourself and tentatively rock your hips. You cry out his name when his nose nudges against your clit. His big hands hold your hips and force you to rock back and forth. Eventually, you find your own rhythm and no longer need his help. When you grind forward, his tongue presses up, deep inside. Then, when you go back, it presses up your slit, then he sucks on your clit. Any worries about suffocating him have dissipated. You rock back and forth and find yourself approaching your peak.

“Oh my God, oh my God, I’m gonna cum—“ he groans into your pussy, and that sends you over the edge. Your thighs clench around his head as white-hot heat spreads through your veins. He laps up your orgasm, licking you through it until you push him away.

“Well, aren’t you sweet?” He says, grinning up at you.

You aren’t even sure what to say, your body all loose and boneless and your brain just mush.

“Let’s get you ready.” He murmurs, laying you down on your back.

You take one, then two fingers. He scissors them, stretching you out. It’s a little tight and uncomfortable, but he kisses all your worries away.

“You ready?” He asks, after pulling out three fingers.

“Yeah.” You say, voice barely a whisper. You can’t even recognize yourself now.

He places his hands on the back of your thighs, pressing you in half. He spreads your pussy, and takes in the sight. “My God, don’t’cha jus’ have the prettiest little pussy.”

You press your eyes shut, wholly embarrassed.

“Cmon, now, eyes on me.” You listen obediently and watch him grab his dick. It looks normal in his hands, but giant in your small ones. He rubs the tip up and down your slit, gathering your slick. He spits on it for good measure. He uses one hand to spread your folds, then slowly presses inside. The head struggles to get past the tight hole, but you nod, telling him to keep going. He throws his head back and moans when he presses further inside. It burns, you feel like you’re being split in two. But you like it, you like that he’s moaning because of you. You like how you can feel it twitch inside you.

“Shit, baby.” He says, hand pressing on your lower stomach. He’s only halfway in.

“I dunno if it’ll fit.” You whimper.

“Deep breaths, honey. In and out.” You listen, and he presses further.

There are tears in your eyes when he bottoms out. “See?” He says, “You take me so well.”

You look down at your tummy, at the bulge. “I can see you.” You manage, with a gasp, placing your hand over your stomach.

He places his much larger hand atop yours and pushes. A wanton moan is ripped from your lungs. You whine his name, and he grins. He places his hands on the back of your thighs and pushes them back. You’re split in half and in two as he pulls out and pushes back in.

“Can you kiss me?” You beg, voice high and breathy and unrecognizable.

He dips down and presses his lips against you. You open up for him, letting him explore your mouth and swallow your moans.

Each of his thrusts is punctuated by a little gasp from you, and boy, does he eat it up. He’s self-aware enough that your tiny body can’t take a long fucking, not when your little body is getting used to a cock that’s double the size of a human.

He rolls his hips in a way that rubs against your swollen, oversensitive clit, and you moan.

“Think you got another one for me, baby?”

You look up at him with glassy eyes, “I dunno.”

He takes the challenge, kissing down your neck, sucking on the tender skin. He thrusts a thumb in your mouth, and you suck. What a fucking minx, he thinks. Once it’s thoroughly wetted, he pulls it out with a pop and starts rubbing your clit. One hand is on your head, protecting it from rocking against the headboard.

He nips and bites at your skin, then wraps his lips around your nipple and sucks. You can barely handle it, and you’re soon falling apart underneath him. You suck him in, and hw groans into your neck as your already tight pussy flutters against him. He meant to pull out, he really did, but hell, you didn’t let him. And fuck, he doesn’t regret it. Filling you up with his cum is like heaven.

When he finally pulls out, he looks down at your fucked out body. His mouth wasn’t gentle, with marks on your neck and down your chest. Your hair sticks to your damp forehead, and your body is limp, chest heaving. His gaze travels down, and, “shit, baby, did I hurt you?”

You look down at him, still kneeling. His half-hard dick has a little blood on it.

“Oh, I, um…” You can’t finish, too embarrassed.

He drags a hand down his face and groans. He thought you just didn’t have much experience, not any experience.

“Hold on,” he says, “how old are you?”

“Nineteen.” You squeak.

“But you’re, you, you have a PhD, don’t you? Ain’t that like eight years of school?”

“I, um, started young.” You grimace.

Quaritch runs his hands up your sides and squeezes your waist. God, his thumbs fucking touch. You’re so tiny, and you took all of him. No one else has gotten to feel your hot, wet heat wrap them like a fucking glove.

You glance down at his cock, which is no longer soft. “Oh, you like it?” You bite your lip and recall Ella’s many escapades, “Should I call you daddy too?”

“Well, ain’t you a little freak. Yer’ gonna get me all worked up again.”

You nudge his cock with your knee, and it swings, hard and heavy.

He snaps your spread legs shut, “You’re done for the day, missy.”

You look down at his still hard cock, “Hey, my eyes are up here.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You say, not meaning it at all.

Quaritch cleans you up in the shower, and you sleepily lean against the cool wall of the shower as he kneels, soapy hands running over your skin. You didn’t expect him to be so… tender.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/84300126